


proof of concept

by Adversarial



Series: in the new year (swingers au) [1]
Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst and Porn, BDSM, Choking, Cock Worship, Cybernetics, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dry Humping, Dysphoria, Foreplay, M/M, Mania, Men Crying, Power Bottom Red "Tord Eddsworld" Leader, Robodick, Rough Sex, Self-Hatred, Self-cest, Strap-Ons, Subdrop, Time Loop, Trans Male Character, incidental additional breathplay brought to you by gc2b, vague overtones of cuckoldry but like not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:06:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28656192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adversarial/pseuds/Adversarial
Summary: When you force your eyes to focus on him, his expression is hard to parse. You recognize pieces of it from yourself-- you know smug when you see it-- and, startlingly, pieces from Tom. This is the look he gives you, sometimes, when you get desperate and crawl in his second-story window in the middle of the night: annoyed, appraising, disturbed. You're crowding him again, trying to lean into the familiarity. You rest your forehead on his shoulder and wrap your arms around his waist. There is a whine building in the back of your throat that you're trying to choke down."You should fuck me. I think you should fuck me. Do you want me to beg? I can do that. Don't you want to punish me?" You're back to pawing at his chest. "God, I'd want to if I were you. I'd want to kick the everlovingshitout of me."---Or: Red Leader goes back in time to fuck himself, complete a time loop, and remember why he tries to forget college.
Relationships: Future Tord | Red Leader/Tord (Eddsworld), Tom/Tord (Eddsworld)
Series: in the new year (swingers au) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2100144
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	proof of concept

"So we made it."

You can feel the huge grin twitching on your face at the sight of him. He's your height, but he wears it better than you do-- he's got a military bearing that makes you aware of your slouch and a pair of thick-heeled boots that give him another two centimeters on you, easy. Same fair skin, same freckles. His hands are in the pockets of his overcoat. There's something that feels off about looking at his face, even ignoring the horrific scarring. You're choosing to ignore the horrific scarring for now. It takes you a few seconds to piece together the differences between his features and yours: age, obviously, the lines around the eyes and mouth that you don't have yet, but there's also a definition to his cheekbones and jaw that you don't recognize from yourself. You almost don't notice yourself touching your own cheek as your eyes rove hungrily over him. 

"Shocking, I know," he deadpans. His voice is a little raspier than yours-- was it the smoking? laryngeal damage from whatever is going to fuck up your face? age? testosterone? you can't be sure-- and his accent's faded into something more muted. He sounds exhausted. It barely registers. "We make it into our forties, at the very least."

You're walking towards him without meaning to, just avoiding stumbling over the stacks of papers and abandoned takeout on the floor. "I can't believe it," you say. "I mean, if you weren't standing here, I would have thought I was dreaming. Surviving until my _forties_. Am I dreaming? I could be dreaming. But, no, if I was dreaming I wouldn't be able to read, and I can make out the titles on the bookshelves just fine, and if I were dreaming I don't think I'd come up with something like whatever happened to your face. I think--" the words are coming faster and you're losing track of them. You're shaking, just a little, and part of you desperately wishes Tom was here to steady you. You'd be pissed if he was in your dorm room, obviously, but right now you'd be willing to let it slide if it meant that you could sink into his arms and hide there for a second. Maybe longer than a second. You're still talking, you realize. You can feel your lips moving. 

The older version of you is looking increasingly unimpressed, his mouth a thin, hard line. He's furrowing the one eyebrow he has left. He's attractive, you think, and you're wondering idly if maybe he'll fuck you, and whether that'd be masturbation or gay, and you must be saying all of this out loud because he suddenly looks somehow even less impressed than before. "So that's what Thomas meant," he says, tone flat, and you're hypnotized by the shape of his lips as they fade into the scarring. "About the rambling. Were we always this bad?" 

"I have no idea what you're talking about," you reply, easily invading his personal space. He lets you into it without protest. You start peering closely at his face, his clothes. The hair on the right side of his head is a little shorter than on the left, cut choppier. His bangs feather out over top of his eyepatch. You desperately want to see what's underneath. "You're in some sort of dress uniform. There's a lot of accolades on your chest-- are we important? Are we a war hero? Did you get the scarring in battle?" 

"We're important," he confirms. His expression's wry. He allows you to start messing with the elastic of his eyepatch, fingertips grazing the scar tissue. You wonder if he can feel it. "No, I can't." Still narrating your thoughts, then. "The scarring is a long story. It was... Deserved. Whether or not we're a war hero is debatable. If you want to see the socket, you're welcome to, but know that it isn't a pleasant sight." You flip the patch up eagerly. Your stomach twists. "I warned you." 

"What happened," you breathe, shuddering as your skin crawls. You're still very close to him, close enough to see the rise and fall of his chest through his coat. When he reaches up to flip his eyepatch back down, his hand is made of metal. 

His gaze slides off of you, and you want it back the second it's gone. You hate how desperate you get when you're like this. He really chose the worst time to show up. If he'd waited just a few days, you would have had time to crash and recover. You would have been more lucid. "Nothing you can prevent," he says, and you have to check and see if you're still saying things out loud. He looks back at you, though, and that's what matters for the moment. You hate being ignored. "Do you know why I'm here yet?" 

"Time loop," you answer quickly, and he gives you the first approving look you've gotten from him. You brighten. "Presumably you're going to give me information that'll alter the course of my life and ensure that your timeline comes to fruition. Which means that, when you were me, you saw an older version of you. You've had this conversation before, haven't you? How does it end? Does it feel strange being on the other side of it?" You give him your most winning smile. "Do we fuck? I think we should fuck." 

"We're insufferable," he says, like it's a revelation, and you're a little offended. "We're insufferable and Thomas is still sleeping with us at this age. It's a miracle." 

Tom's name makes you stop unbuttoning his coat. "What do you mean, 'still'?" 

"Don't worry about it yet," he says, and you're torn between continuing to worry about it and focusing on the arduous task of stripping him. You want to see what he looks like under all of the layers-- how far down does the scarring go? how far up is the prosthetic connected? you have so many questions-- and he's not stopping you. "He's loyal. That's all you need to know right now." 

One small piece of the knot of tension inside of you relaxes. "Good." 

"He still doesn't know you've been stealing his clothes," he says, as you finish unbuttoning the coat. The older version of you shrugs it off, revealing a turtleneck underneath. It's a very attractive getup. You're too busy pawing at his chest, urging him to strip, to appreciate it. He sounds... Happier, now that you're talking about Tom. You wonder if you sound the same. "Or his cassettes. Or his pencils." 

"I need them," you say, perfunctory. You're too busy untucking the turtleneck from his belt and being struck by how broad he is to try and justify that statement. You're chewing a little on your bottom lip as you slide his sweater up. 

The scarring goes all the way down past his hip. He lets out a harsh breath through his nose when you run your palm up the roughened skin. "Like what you see?" he asks.

You hum your assent as you trace the edges of his scarring with your fingertips. "We got top surgery," you say, a little surprised as your hands reach the well-healed incision on his left side. You thumb at his nipple and he shivers. "I shouldn't be shocked. It healed much better than the rest of you." 

"Our nipples were pierced," he explains, and you rub at it again, experimenting. Again, he shivers. "We lost the piercings when we needed repeat skin grafts. Trying to remove and replace the one on the left was too difficult single-handed." 

"So top surgery came before the rest of the scarring," you reason, pushing the hem of his sweater up to his shoulders. You can see the scar tissue get thicker where the metal of his arm meets his body. "Cybernetic?" 

"Full range of motion. Lightweight. Our own design," he says, and he flexes and relaxes his fingers in demonstration. You're entranced by the way they move-- it's so natural, so fluid. You're mentally dismantling each joint, trying to piece the system together. He goes ahead and pulls his turtleneck the rest of the way off, giving you a chance to watch the way the muscles in his torso move. The half of him that isn't burned to hell is undeniably attractive. He catches you looking while he drops his sweater to the floor. "That's not the only cybernetic we've got." 

"Your right leg too?" you ask, and his face contorts into a wolfish smile. You recognize this expression best out of all of the ones he's shown you so far. You let your touch trail down to where his scarring meets his slacks. His hipbone feels intact; you start massaging it. You're so absorbed in what you're doing that you don't notice when he reaches his robotic arm out to tangle his hand in your hair. " _Mmh._ " 

"No, our leg is fine," he says, and when he gives your hair a tug, you moan. "Are we always this much of a slut, or is it worse when we're manic?" 

"Worse," you say, and you want to say more words, but your head is a mess of _please please please please_. When he takes his hand away, you scramble to get closer to him. "No, wait, don't stop--" 

When you force your eyes to focus on him, his expression is hard to parse. You recognize pieces of it from yourself-- you know smug when you see it-- and, startlingly, pieces from Tom. This is the look he gives you, sometimes, when you get desperate and crawl in his second-story window in the middle of the night: annoyed, appraising, disturbed. You're crowding him again, trying to lean into the familiarity. You rest your forehead on his shoulder and wrap your arms around his waist. There is a whine building in the back of your throat that you're trying to choke down. "You should fuck me. I think you should fuck me. Do you want me to beg? I can do that. Don't you want to punish me?" You're back to pawing at his chest. "God, I'd want to if I were you. I'd want to kick the everloving _shit_ out of me." You're making yourself shivery now. You don't want to start grinding against his thigh just yet, but it's getting difficult to resist the compulsion. "We look good when we're getting fucked," you murmur to his collarbone. "You know that. We always liked to watch." 

"You know," he purrs, "when I was you, I was entirely unsurprised by what I'm about to do to you." His hand is back in your hair, and that little mercy has you pressing yourself up against his chest, gasping. He's carding his fingers through it, petting you like a cat, and it's making you throb with want. "I was angry, of course, but it made perfect sense." 

"Are you going to hurt me?" you ask, voice muffled against his shoulder. He drags his chrome-plated nails across the back of your neck and your hips jerk once, quickly. He switches back to petting you. You can't help it; you whine. "You should hurt me. Please hurt me." 

"I wouldn't have been angry if I'd been getting hurt," he explains, as if you're a particularly slow child. You can't care. You're sighing into his touch, kissing up the scarred side of his neck. He probably can't feel it. When he takes his hand away from you, you tense and start kissing him more urgently. He catches your chin in his hand and forces you away from him, leaving you distressed and breathless until he tilts your face up. He meets your eyes with his cold one. "Stop that." 

You go still at the demand. "Yes, sir," you say, trying not to nuzzle his palm. You want to so badly. 

"I'm going to give you a list of directions now. You're going to obey them to the letter." His tone is firm, commanding. It hits you that he knows, with perfect certainty, exactly what you are going to do. You're powerless to resist. It's a heady feeling. "Strip down to your binder and boxers. Go to your closet, pull out your strap and lube. Put the strap on and slick it up. Don't touch yourself." 

" _Fuck_. Yes, sir," you repeat, stumbling away from the warmth of his body to unbutton your fly. It's difficult. Your hands are shaking too badly to get the button undone. When you look back up at him, blush bright across your cheeks, he raises his remaining eyebrow and looks brutally neutral. It's a look Tom gives you often. It goes straight to your cunt. "Wanna touch," you whisper, shuddering when you hear the desperation in your own voice. It's pathetic. He's looking at you like you're pathetic, and he's right. 

"Of course you do," he says, before you can spiral too far. You've squeezed your eyes shut without meaning to as you finally manage to work your jeans off. Once you kick them off your feet, you reach to take off your hoodie. Hesitate. "But you won't, because you're going to be a good boy for me, aren't you?" 

You can't help the sound you make at that. "Yes, sir," you choke out, and the words _good boy_ are enough to kill your hesitation. You're pulling off your hoodie, eyes still closed tight. He's you, which means that he knows what you look like with your shirt off. But he's _you,_ which means that he hates the taper of your waist, the way your hips flare. You can't help worrying that--

"I still want to fuck you," he says, voice gravelly, and you finally snap open your eyes to look at him again. Your pupils must be blasted. It's hard to keep his face in focus. He's looking at you, though, studying your body with a disturbing level of concentration. He spends a while eyeing your thighs. You can't tell what he's thinking when he looks at you like that. You doubt that it's all positive. "Relax. That's an order." His gaze finally slides back across your shoulders, up your neck, over to meet yours. "How do you respond to orders?" 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "Yes, sir," you repeat again, self-consciousness fading along with most of your rational thought. You relax. Your body feels hot. You're wetting your lips without meaning to. There's a part of you that is begging to lay down on the floor and spread your legs for him and it's taking an effort to not give into it. You still have more commands to obey.

While you make your way to your closet, you hear the springs of your bed creak under his weight. You can hear him unzip his slacks and your throat goes dry. You fumble with your strap, taking longer than usual to get it on. "The lube is--" your start, but when you turn to face him, he's already holding the bottle. 

"--On the bedside table," he finishes, flicking the lid off. Then, "you're staring." 

You are staring. You're staring as the older version of you, shirtless, reaches down to stroke his cybernetic dick with his lubed-up robotic hand. It's thick, you realize, tripping on a pile of laundry in your haste to get closer and almost falling. Your brain isn't offering you any other words. 

"We were bound to do something like this eventually," he says, a teasing lilt to his voice. You're dropping to your knees next to him, tracking every movement of his hand on his dick. He gives himself a little squeeze at the bottom of his shaft and sighs. "If we could manage a fully-functional arm, a cock is child's play." The pad of his thumb traces over his slit. He smirks at your sharp breath. "You can't tell me you're surprised." 

For maybe the first time in your life, you're at a loss for words. You watch as he continues to stroke himself, the red casing of his hand sliding smoothly against the polymer membrane. It's hypnotic. 

"I told you to lubricate your strap," he says, tone stern, and the bolt of panic you feel hits you right in the stomach. You're mumbling out apologies even as you stay on your knees, a steady stream of _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please forgive me, master, please,_ even as you can't tear yourself away from the image of your older self reclining on your dorm bed, jacking off. He's powerful, adult and masculine in a way that you haven't yet grown into, and the promise of a future where you're that self-assured leaves you dizzy. You're leaning in without thinking about it. 

"Absolutely shameless," he mutters, sitting up straight when you start rubbing your cheek against his cock. The texture is odd, somewhere between skin and silicone. You feel your eyelashes fluttering as you fight to keep your eyes open. You give up entirely when you feel his hands in your hair again, let your lips go slack and open. You've seen photos of yourself like this, glazed over and cock-hungry, and it's always gotten you wet. On cue, he growls.

He tilts your head back up so that you're facing him, and it takes you a moment to realize that he's waiting for you to meet his gaze again. "Listen to me when I am talking to you," he rumbles. "What did I tell you to do?"

"Please," you're saying, again, "please, I want it in my mouth, please, _need_ it--" 

His grip tightens past the point of pleasurable and into the realm of actual pain. "What did I tell you to do," he repeats, low and dangerous. 

You feel the tears start, hot and unbidden and humiliating, and try to talk fast enough that he won't notice. "Told me to lube my strap, but I want--" 

"I don't care," he cuts you off. With your vision blurring, you can't try to read his face. You can't tell if he's disappointed or angry or vindicated or something else entirely. All you know is that it feels like a slap to the cheek. "Last try: what did I tell you to do?"

When Tom doms you, you think, as you take the bottle of lube in your shaking fingers and start warming a generous amount of it in your hands, it clears some of the static in your brain. Your world narrows down to him. He brushes away the constant noise inside of you like it's cobwebs. You relax with him.

"Good pet," the older you says, and your head has never been such a mess. You can feel yourself dripping in your boxers as you slick up your strap. "I knew you could obey."

You try opening your mouth to beg for... Something, anything, you're not sure, but no words come out. Probably for the best. You're stroking your strap with the same slow motions that he stroked his dick, shuddering at the parallel. 

"Now," he says, "here is what you're going to do." He leans back, spreading his thighs apart in invitation. "You're going to watch as I finger myself, and then you're going to fuck me until I cum. You will not touch yourself. You will not cum until I decide you've earned it. _If,_ " he amends, already sliding one mechanical digit into his cunt, "I decide you've earned it at all." You're blinking away your tears, swaying back and forth on your knees as you watch his hand move. You keep jacking off your strap, your hand moving in fast, aggressive strokes even though all it makes you feel is the bite of the harness digging into your hips. There's a deep ache riding low in your pelvis. You want to cum. You want to be a good boy so that he'll let you cum. You're nodding your assent, watching in mindless desperation as he adds a second finger and starts to scissor them. He's so hard. You're swallowing over and over again to stop yourself from drooling.

"When I was you," he breathes, crooking his fingers and gasping at his own touch, "I was so frustrated that I couldn't blow him. That I had to sit back and watch when he had such a pretty dick. Frustrated, and," he slips in a third finger with a harsh exhale, "confused. Disoriented. Needy. Needed to cum so badly." He arches into his own touch as he says that, and you whine watching him. "I wanted him to touch me. I was soaking through my underwear." You are. God, you are. "But I knew that I needed to be a good boy and make him finish first. _Fuck,_ " he hisses, legs trembling as he fingers himself, the way yours always do when you masturbate, "you have no idea how good it feels to be the one who cums." 

"Please," you whisper, finally finding your words. You have no idea what you're saying. He huffs out a laugh, and under the thick excitement of submission, you're pissed with your own shame. "Please, please, sir, please, god, please let me fuck you. Wanna be a good boy and fuck you." 

He shivers. He drags his fingers out of himself agonizingly slowly and lays back on the bed, motioning for you to stand between his knees. You do.

When you look down at him, he takes your breath away: he's flushed against your grimy sheets, the pink fading into the scars and scattering. His hair is tousled. His dick is hard, weeping something clear and sticky onto his abs. His lone eye is dark with lust. "Fuck me," he commands, prosthetic fingers spreading himself open. You obey. 

You're biting down hard on your lower lip to stop yourself from rambling as you line yourself up, bracing your hands on either side of him. You want to touch him, you think, as you ease inside with a careful roll of your hips. You want to run your palms up his sides and feel the contrast between them, try to convince him to arch again like he did when he was touching himself. You think he might kill you if you tried. 

Once you bottom out, you pause, unsure of what to do next. You're panting a little, ribs uncomfortable against your binder, and you're about to say something stupid when he grabs you by the neck with his normal hand to drag you in close. 

"You know how I like it," he rasps. You can feel his breath, hot against your ear. Your thoughts scatter like leaves in a strong wind. You're struggling to breathe. "Rough." He grinds down against your strap, leaving you gasping as the harness drags against your clit through your boxers. "Just like you."

You dig your nails into his hips and he moans. "That's my good kitten," he says, bucking up into the pain, and you're gone.

You pull almost all of the way out of him before slamming in again with a vengeance. Again. Again. You start clawing at his chest, leaning down on top of him with a little too much of your body weight, and he rewards you by squeezing your throat so tightly that your vision starts to go dark around the edges. You can feel, more than see, how he's gone back to stroking his dick with his prosthetic hand. 

You're saying something through the choking, you think, as you thrust wildly into him. Probably a lot of words you'd regret if you could hear them. Your head is pleasantly fuzzy from the lack of air, though, and he's started whispering praise directly into your ear in a low, dangerous voice. You feel yourself rubbing against your harness, trying to find friction as you fuck him. Distantly, you're aware of the fact that you're crying. 

"You were right," he's saying, "about looking good when we fuck. _Dug er dødssexy._ You look so pretty with your cock inside me. So desperate to please. I can see the damp spot in your boxers from here." You whimper, push deeper into him. "Fffuck. Good boy. _Min kjære, min skatt, søte, min engel, min stjerne._ That's a good boy. Just like that. It feels good to fuck me like this, doesn't it? Always loved to just shut off my mind and obey." You want to cum so badly. "You're getting close, aren't you? God, we look so hot when we cry. _You're not allowed to cum until I say you can,_ " he snaps, and you're burying your face in the scarring of his neck and pleading for release.

He gasps, letting go of your neck to brace himself against the bed as he ruts against your strap. You're trying to keep fucking him, but all you can manage is a few weak rolls of your hips. You're writhing on top of him, breathing hard against your binder as his hand speeds up on his cock. " _Tom, _" you sob, voice shattering, "Tom, _please_." __

__He shouts as he cums, his whole body wracked with tremors, and you collapse on his chest as he does. You're still begging, still trying to rub yourself against your harness even as he wraps his legs around your waist to try and keep you from moving. "Need to cum," you're saying, as he slowly shudders to a stop, "need it, please, Tom, please, it hurts, god, please--"_ _

__"Come here," he orders, still breathless as he gestures for you to join him on the bed, and you struggle to comply. He jolts when you pull out too roughly. "Lay down on top of me. One thigh between your legs." You're trembling as you comply, let out a soft sound when you finally feel real pressure against your clit. You're shifting your hips in tiny circles before he gives you permission, silently praying that he won't tell you to stop. The wet cotton of your boxers is almost too much sensation. "That's a good boy. Now hump me until you cum."_ _

__It takes less than a minute of frenetic rutting before you do, screaming and clawing at his torso. Your orgasm washes over you in waves, leaving you throbbing and limp against him. He lifts his thigh, just enough to keep you pushed up against him until you finish and begin to weakly shift against him again. Once you do, he lowers it._ _

__You spend a while like that, your strap and his softening dick caught between your bodies, waiting for your breathing to slow. You keep waiting for the post-fuck clarity to set in, but all you can find in yourself is a growing sense of paranoia._ _

__"Hey," you say, when you gather your wits enough to speak again. Your head is still spinning. You are trying, unsuccessfully, to burrow your way into the crook of his neck and never come out again. He's leaning away from you. The paranoia ramps up. "Hey. Hey, can you..." You trail off, and when you finally wriggle around to face him, he's giving you a baleful look. The bottom of your stomach drops out._ _

__He waits for you to continue in oppressive silence. You try again. "You know how, after he fucks us, sometimes Tom will..." You try to gesture, but your arms are too weak. "... He'll, you know, pat me on the head." You can't meet his eye. "Or hold me. And let me rest my head on his chest. Not for long, just..." You don't want to beg. God, you don't want to beg. You'll do it if you have to. You feel your face flaming bright red. "Can you...?"_ _

__You could live another century and not forget the way he looks at you when you say that. "Please," you whisper, but he's already pulling away._ _

__"I should be going now," he says, tone perfectly level. He sits up and stretches, leaving you to shove your face in the sheets and shake. It smells like him, you realize, like smoke and jute and aftershave, and you're torn between hiding away with that smell forever or retching. The shitty mattress springs back when he gets up. "I'll be around again, you know. You'll be seeing significantly more of me before the time loop closes."_ _

__"Don't," you say, even though you know it's idiotic. It's a time loop. Neither of you have any control over what is about to happen, or what has happened already. Same difference. You curl up into a little ball in your bed and have to contend with the fact that you're still wearing your strap, glistening wet with lube and his cum. You want Tom._ _

__"I'm..." He starts, before letting the sentence lapse. You hear the sound of wool against skin-- he must have pulled his sweater back on. "Hell. That's not even true. I'm not sorry." The sound of a zipper being done up. "You'll understand, when you're me. Whether you like it or not."_ _

__It was good sex, you're thinking, as you hear the lock on your door click open. Fantastic sex, even, if you ignore the part where you only got to cum once. You got to fuck your own future self, who is probably a war hero and who is definitely attractive. There's no reason for you to feel so miserable right now. You hate that you feel so miserable right now. You hate..._ _

__Ah. There it is._ _

__"Hold onto that thought," he says, and you snarl into your comforter. "The one you're having right now. That self-loathing. Hold onto it very tightly." The sound of your door creaking on its hinges. "It'll get you places."_ _

__You do. Oh, God, you do. He walks out of your room, leaves his coat on your floor._ _

__And when you see him in the bathroom mirror later that night, with his hair sticking out at strange angles and his eyes wide and red-rimmed, you break his fucking nose._ _

**Author's Note:**

> [i tried but i don't think so / maybe it was me who was fucking up / i gave all i could give but / it seems like it never really was enough](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vl37tvTi4IA&list=RDVl37tvTi4IA&index=1)
> 
> \---
> 
> Exactly what it says on the tin: this is a quick proof of concept (and sort of a prequel, I guess? that's subject to change) for a longer, significantly more convoluted time travel AU I'm working on right now! I wound up separating this piece in particular out both because it's tonally distinct from the rest of the writing I have so far and to gauge people's takes on the whole "Tomtord Future Selves x Past Selves Swingers AU" concept, so feel free to leave said takes in the comments! The current, extremely homosexual playlist I have for this AU can be found [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6UhZT5sqZEzQPwWBOA5gOs?si=D97vpWldSB6Gr-QfN8PgNA), in case you want to check the vibes. 
> 
> Thanks as always go to my long-suffering, amazing, wonderful partner @jinxedlucky for dealing so gracefully with me coming to the dinner table with horrible porn ideas. Additional gratitude belongs to Kaiya and Eli for their patience with my rambling and to Di for helping me conceptualize and plot all this in the first place <3 Love y'all!


End file.
